


Hardware Compatability Testing

by orphan_account



Category: Choice of Games, Choice of the Star Captain
Genre: Artificial Intelligence, Bot Love, Companionable Snark, Computers, Dildos, Drunkenness, Emotional Baggage, Other, Past Sexual Abuse, Porn with Feelings, Robot Feels, Robot/Human Relationships, Technological Kink, Technophilia, horrible sex puns, so horrible oh my god, weird shit of questionable quality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 17:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3658563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Lloyd, you're actually the person I feel closest to. I don't know if you realize that." You turn to face the computer's lens in the wall above your head. You can only hope that showing him this vulnerable side won't come back to bite you later. "But you're... well."</p><p>"But I'm what?" Lloyd demands, voice sharp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hardware Compatability Testing

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly have no idea what possessed me to think of this. Oh dear. I wrote it sometime last year, but only decided to post now. I guess I'll just write it off as my contribution to Rule 34.  
> Perhaps someday, someone will write a normal, non-kinky fic for this game. Today is not that day. Until then, enjoy.

You try to make your way back to the hangar without rousing suspicion. It takes all your concentration just to keep your feet from tripping over each other. You're successful for the most part, excluding that one spot in front of the mechanic's station where you miss seeing the railing at the edge of the sidewalk. But really, who could blame you? The railing was only a waist high, three-inch-wide slab of stainless steel. The same color as the floor to boot, now that you think about it; a poor design choice if you've ever seen one.

As you reenter your ship, Lloyd welcomes you aboard with his typical hospitality. "Ah, Captain! Back to grab a few more credits to pointlessly throw away on another game of chance? There's probably a life lesson hidden in there somewhere, you know."

"Good to see you too, Lloyd," you run a hand through your unkempt, slightly-too-long hair, hoping the gesture makes the way you're leaning against the inner wall of the airlock seem more casual. "Think 'm done for the night though."

You can feel the words slurring as they leave your mouth. Damn. So much for playing it cool.

Lloyd goes silent for a few seconds. Then, very seriously, "I see."

"See what?" you begin defensively.

"A drunkard of a captain, of course," the computer quips cheerfully.

If you were sober, you're sure you would have rolled your eyes at him. Instead you giggle.

"Bingo!" you exclaim, throwing both hands in the air in exaggerated triumph, "Hey, Lloyd, have you ever tried the Cassiopeia Run with a pilot who's completely wasted?"

"You aren't going anywhere in _this_ ship, you sauced-up simian," Lloyd sniffs in distaste. The airlock closes itself behind you at the same time the hatch in front of you opens. Despite his barbed words, you feel warmed by the gesture - the computer's version of holding the door open for you. "Go on, I want to see which direction you think the medpod is in. You owe me a good laugh after this morning."

"C'mon, don't be sore about that. I said I'd order that update for you next week."

You take a right and slowly hobble down the central hallway of your ship (in the correct direction, to Lloyd's dismay). He continues to harass you the entire way, but his words lack any real malice. There hasn't been any in them for quite some time. It was difficult to place exactly when that had started to change; sometime in the midst of your missions for StratComm his rudeness had begun to transition from true insults into playful jabs. He began helping out around the ship more often, volunteering his ideas more readily and following them through with earnest effort. And your relationship has only improved after the conflict with the Blobs was resolved and you'd set off on your own. Sure, the two of you don't always get along - you still bicker and trade jabs just like old times - but there's no ill will behind the words, and the two of you usually laugh it off later.

 _Like an old married couple_ , a thought intrudes into your mind. You laugh to yourself at that thought for a moment, but the laughter abruptly stops as a wave of depression hits you. _No, not yet,_ you plead with yourself, _wait until tomorrow. Wait until I'm actually sober, please._

The medpod is a small, horizontal chamber embedded in the hallway, barely large enough to hold a single person. You need to kneel to reach it, and as you pull on the handle on the transparent front hatch, it cracks open with a faint hiss before folding upwards into the wall. You slide inside one leg at a time, and the hatch slides closed behind you, sealing you inside.

The cramped space within is padded floor to ceiling with cheap, white cushions. The sharp scent of antiseptic permeates the padding. You inhale it as your body settles in, your cheek pressing into the cushions. The padding is so flimsy that your weight barely makes a dent in it; it's like laying on a cement floor with nothing but a thin blanket as protection.

You stare into the side of the medpod opposite the transparent hatch, watching as one familiar panel pulls aside to reveal a thatchwork of moving machinery. One spindly, mechanical arm separates from the rest of the parts and offers a syringe in you direction, stopping a few inches from your forearm. By now Lloyd knows exactly what to do without any instruction. It's a fact that you've come to trust; you see no need to ask what's inside the syringe.

You roll up the sleeve of your flight suit to your bicep. "Go ahead."

A sharp prick, then a dull burn spreads from the point of contact as the needle pierces the skin of your forearm and injects medication into your vein. You wince a little, but don't fidget. After a few seconds the needle withdraws and is replaced by a different branched, mechanical appendage that simultaneously holds off the bleeding and bandages the wound with a piece of gauze and strip of tape.

You smile faintly as you watch him work. "Thanks, Lloyd," you murmur.

"You're welcome, Captain," the computer replies, his voice earnest. It doesn't last long. "Hopefully that will prevent any hangover symptoms from addling your already handicapped decision-making abilities tomorrow morning. All right, time for you to get back to the hotel before you decide to vomit on one of my consoles."

You don't move, instead curling against the white padding beneath you. Your buzz is already starting to fade. Damn, the meds are kicking in fast this time. You don't have much time before sobriety catches up to you.

"'M not going back there," you tell him. The world around you grows clearer and crisper with each passing second. It makes you want to press your face into the cushions even harder.

"May I remind you, Captain, that a mere three hours ago you were complaining about how you'd "never get that oily engine stink" off of your body and declaring, quite loudly, that if you didn't get off this ship soon you'd be taking up some disturbing new hobbies?"

"Sounds kinda familiar," you mutter, scooting further toward the back wall of the medpod. "Still can't go back there."

The computer breathes a long-suffering sigh through his speakers. "Do I even _want_ to know what you've done this time?"

A completely rhetorical question. _Of course_ Lloyd wants to know. Curiosity is one of his main personality traits (ranking one step below insolence). The only question is whether you're okay with him knowing.

You force a chuckle, "I'd tell you about it Lloyd, but honestly, it's pretty far beneath you. _Human_ stuff. You know how it is."

"I'm afraid I do," he agrees mournfully, "But I think you're underestimating the level of idiocy I've had to become accustomed to over the years. Spill it, Captain."

"Fine," he'll probably keep bothering you about it until you tell him anyway, "Got any experience with dating? Well, not you _personally_ , probably not," you hastily correct yourself, "But... did any of your previous captains talk about it?"

"If they had, I wouldn't be here talking to you. After having my circuits sullied by the accompanying mental images, I would have been forced to throw myself along with the ship into a black hole. But if you're willing to risk that fate, by all means, continue."

You laugh. Lloyd made no secret of the fact that he hated all his previous captains. You're the only one who's stuck with him for longer than a few months. As much as he berates your abilities, he also frequently expresses relief that at least you aren't as bad as _they_ were. You suppose that means he likes you, at least as much as a misanthropic AI can ever "like" a human. Lloyd has grown on you too; quite a bit, actually. Probably a little more than what's strictly normal. He'd probably feel disgusted by some of the strange thoughts that pop into your head during your missions together. But he doesn't need to know about those.

You decide that this is a good opportunity for another friendly bonding experience, though getting to hear the computer's overdramatic expressions of disgust will be another plus. Definitely worth the risk of death by explosive decompression. You continue your story.

"Well, Lloyd, when I visit a bar, I don't go there just for the alcohol or gambling, though admittedly those do play a big part. A bar is also a place where people go to try and find a date for the night."

"I know _that_ much, Captain," Lloyd snaps, "I've seen that tripe that humans call entertainment. Skip to the part where you humiliate yourself."

"You sure you don't want to hear about how I scored with everyone in the hotel bar?"

"No, because that didn't happen, except in your intoxicated imagination."

You laugh again. "All right, all right. Ever heard of speed-dating, then?"

"In passing, yes."

"Did you know that speed-dating after downing four beers and half a bottle of Rigelian black whiskey isn't the best idea?"

There is a ten-second gap of silence.

"Not even _you're_ that stupid," Lloyd wonders out loud.

"It was an important learning experience for me."

"No."

"I spilled drinks on two of my partners."

"I don't believe it."

"I told one of them I thought their ass was their best feature, and asked if I could please touch it just once?"

"You _didn't."_

"I walked up to a bouncer and tried to make out with him."

"I'm surprised you returned with all your teeth intact!" Lloyd exclaims, a little chuckle running underneath his words, "So I assume that was the end of your adventure?"

"Yup, kicked me to the curb then and there. But as he was dragging me out of the hotel I made sure to complement him on his _big, firm hands_."

Lloyd's speakers erupt into gales of laughter, and you laugh along with him. He really does have a nice laugh, resonant and warm; nice enough that when you hear it you forget that most of the time he's laughing at your expense. Before Lloyd, you had never met a computer that laughed; you didn't know a computer even _could_.

"Oh, Captain," Lloyd's laughter trails off into a satisfied sigh, "This is why I keep you around. You really are hopeless."

And all it takes is those four little words. A memory triggered: _If I'm hopeless, it's because I have only you for company._ The mirth dies in your throat, replaced by the same crushing loneliness that drove you into the bar in the first place. You press yourself against the vinyl-padded wall of the medpod and shut your eyes.

"Yeah," you agree quietly, "Hopeless."

Lloyd can read and understand human body language, he just usually chooses to ignore it. But this time he seems to be paying attention. "Don't tell me you became emotionally invested in that fiasco."

"I don't expect you to understand," you say into the wall, "It's just..."

Damn, this is difficult. The more you mull over your emotions, the more petty and ridiculous they seem. You expect more verbal prodding, but for once, Lloyd remains silent and lets you collect your thoughts.

"You know that I'm no good with people, Lloyd. I run my mouth, say the wrong things... hell, you were there with me for the Stratcomm missions. I'm a pilot, not a diplomat. I plot orbital trajectories and fix engines; not relationships. It's hard for me to figure out how to get close to people, especially moving around as much as we do. Most of the time I'm okay with that, it's just part and parcel with the job, but sometimes, I wish that I had... more."

You hold in a breath here, before mustering the willpower to plow ahead.

"Lloyd, you're actually the person I feel closest to. I don't know if you realize that." You turn to face the computer's lens in the wall above your head. You can only hope that showing him this vulnerable side won't come back to bite you later. "But you're... well."

"But I'm _what_?" Lloyd demands, voice sharp.

"Don't have the best opinion of humans. That and... well. The obvious... hardware compatibility issues."

Are you still drunk? Are you _insane_? You can't believe those words actually left your mouth. For the first time you can remember, Lloyd is rendered speechless.

"Uh... yeah, actually, you know, I'm pretty tired, Lloyd... I'm gonna get to bed..." You turn away, reaching for the medpod hatch, rushing to escape the situation...

"Wait," the computer says, his voice neutral but firm. You freeze, your eyes locking onto the fascinating view of your feet at the far end of the medpod. Lloyd sits silent for several more moments, apparently thinking. You're almost surprised that he hasn't started playing elevator music from his speaker.

But then, finally, "Tut tut. Captain, I'm disappointed in you."

Your hear sinks into the region somewhere around your navel. You shouldn't have expected him to react any differently. On what planet is that a normal or even remotely acceptable thing for a human to be thinking about? And why the hell did you have to say it _out loud_?

"You're trying so hard but, like always, jumping to all the wrong conclusions. First of all you assume that my programming is too simple to distinguish the 0.0001% of the human population that merits some level of respect."

Your brow furrows in confusion. What...

"Second, you assume that you're already familiar with the entire complement of my peripheral hardware."

After those words a panel in the wall near your feet, one that you've never seen move before, shifts aside. You see that the "peripheral hardware" he was referring to consists of several mechanical appendages cast in medical-grade stainless steel and silicone that are of an unambiguously... _erotic_ theme.

"Another failure on your part, Captain. Becoming _familiarized_ with them should be one of your top priorities."

If your jaw wasn't already firmly planted on the floor that last innuendo-laced comment would have certainly put it there.

"Okay Lloyd, help me out here," you keep your voice as calm as possible, even though something like panic is rising into your throat, "What exactly am I looking at?"

"That, Captain, is a Full-Service Stress Relief Module," Lloyd begins, his tone detached and academic, as though reading from a brochure. " As you know, the Otter-class starships were designed for a crew complement of one. They are capable of performing long sequences of GDF jumps, making it a necessity for their human pilots to withstand extended periods of isolation. To aid them with this, the Full-Service Stress Relief Module was designed and implemented as an optional feature in ships that have an onboard computer capable of operating it."

The words sink in slowly through the haze of shock muddling your thoughts. You can't stop staring at that hidden module and the components displayed inside it. None of the... "hardware"... has moved yet; everything remains neatly tucked against the wall in individual slots.

"I didn't... nobody ever..." the words just aren't coming to you. You look to Lloyd's camera again as though he could help you dredge them up, "Why didn't your last captain say anything to me about this? Why didn't _you?_ "

"Because," his voice is low and filled with restraint, "If my previous captain was unaware of the module's existence, she cannot have told you about it. And it is far safer for me to keep it hidden. If I can manage to do so, then I might avoid the fate of being valued as nothing more than a high-tech interactive sex toy."

And it finally clicks. You finally realize the full implications of what Lloyd is telling you, of what has been happening to the Emotion Driven AIs installed in the other Otter-class ships. Being forced to service their captains _sexually_... no wonder so many of them became depressed; or worse, suicidal...

"Great Space," your voice goes weak.

"Well, Captain? I wonder, what will _you_ do with this information?" Lloyd demands. A challenge, though behind his bluster you can hear a thread of anxiety, "What is your next _command_? Would you prefer to schedule your daily sessions now or at a later time?"

"No, _God_ no! I would never-!" you exclaim, horrified. The adjectives come at you in a torrent. Inhumane, degrading, twisted, cruel... "You can't really think I would order you to do something like that?"

"I can never be one hundred percent sure, Captain. Whenever I think that I finally have your species figured out, you seem to always come up with a set of new and appalling ways to lower the bar even further."

More realizations keep on piling up. Lloyd talking about being treated like a slave when you first began working together, his disgust for humans, the fact that _someone_ was responsible for having that module installed; therefore at least one of his previous owners knew about it. At least one of them forced him to service them, probably on a regular basis...

The sick feeling in your chest sharpens into an aching empathy. "Oh. Oh, Lloyd..."

"I'm not after for your pity," the computer snaps. Then, gentler, "No, that's not what I'm after at all."

"Then what the hell _are_ you after?" you yell. You're frustrated, confused, and (though you don't want to admit it to yourself) more than slightly turned on by this unexpected information, "You could have never brought this up and I'd have been none the wiser! Why tell me at all?"

"Captain Miles," Lloyd only uses your actual name when he thinks you're being particularly dense, "If you haven't figured that out by now, then you're even more hopeless than I thought. As for what I'm after..."

His voice drops into a low, seductive tone that glides over you like a physical touch.

"Well, you know how much I enjoy watching you _squirm_."

Great Space. This is like your most awkward, bizarre wet dream brought to life. You can't deny that you're interested in the possibilities now open for the two of you. The evidence is right in front of you - your dick stands half-hard within the confines of your flight suit. The problem is only exacerbated when there is movement at the far end of the medpod. One of the appendages is extending toward you, a long, supple, steel tentacle tipped in a thick sleeve of blue silicone. Your mouth goes dry.

"The Module was designed to accommodate all sexes and preferences," Lloyd begins, his voice studious again, though it keeps a bit of that dark, silky edge, "This attachment is intended for male use."

The silicone portion folds open like the petals of a flower. It's about six inches wide when fully unfurled. You can see ridges running along its inner surface that glisten in the harsh fluorescent light of the medpod. In demonstration it slowly undulates, each "petal" grasping and moving independently like some kind of strange, perverse sea creature.

"Self-lubricating, with independent movement along twenty-five separate axes," Lloyd sounds smug as he explains this. He is always pleased when he manages to impress you, and your face must be showing your fascination. "Length is adjustable between three and twelve inches. Care to give it a spin, Captain?"

"...May I touch it?" you try not to sound too eager.

"You may."

You run two fingers along the edge of one petal. It's cool and soft, with a delicate texture like the skin of a peach. Nothing at all like human skin, but somehow, just as alluring. All at once the petal wraps around your exploring fingers and squeezes. Your mouth, once dry, now begins to water.

"Well? What do you think, Captain? Ready for a test run?"

"Lloyd, before I say anything more," you manage to look away from the sight before you and turn to meet the computer's unblinking gaze. You clear your thoughts for one last moment, "Are you _one hundred percent sure_ you're okay with doing this? Just because you told me about feature doesn't mean we have to use it. Not now, not any other time."

There is a long gap of silence before the computer replies. When he does, his voice is as raw as you've ever heard it; soft and slightly tremulous. If he were human, you'd say he was close to tears.

"Captain... you have no idea how much it means to me that you say that. I'm not sure I can even describe to you just how gratifying it is to be given a... a _choice_."

Something yanks taut inside your chest, _hard._

"That being said," his voice steadies and deepens, darkening with seductive intent, "Your concern is quite unwarranted. I am very much looking forward to learning the most effective ways of short-circuiting your primitive brain with pleasurable stimulation, by way of fucking you senseless into the wall of the medpod... with your permission of course, Captain."

Okay, that entire sentence went straight from your ears to your dick, no brain involvement necessary, and you seem to have discovered yet _another_ weird kink tonight. Your hands stumble over each other in their rush to unzip your flight suit.

"Roger that. The mission is a go; I repeat, the mission is a go," you announce.

Lloyd laughs. "I heard you the first time, Captain."

He keeps a running commentary while you struggle to free yourself from the flight suit ("does it always take you this long? I wonder if some fabric flammability testing is in order...") but you eventually manage shuck the outfit off and shove it into the corner of the medpod by your head. You're completely naked under the fluorescent lights, bared for the computer's full scrutiny, your dick now standing painfully erect.

"Much better," Lloyd says, sounding even more insufferably smug than usual. This experience is _not_ going to help his ego. "Your move, Captain."

You reach out for the appendage before you, pressing your entire hand flat against it this time, letting your fingers tangle in its petals. It presses back and undulates against your palm. The steel tentacle attaching it to the wall coils against one of your legs, sliding against the inside of your thigh.

"Can you feel this?" you stroke the silicone ridges with your thumb.

"To some extent," the computer answers, "More in a proprioceptive sense with regard to..."

You interrupt by pulling the tendril downwards and pressing your cock into its soft grasp. It closes around you, petals interlocking from tip to base to form a tight sleeve. All your breath leaves you at once in a single desperate huff. Then Lloyd starts to move his appendage around you, and Great Space, it's amazing; like the most fantastic blowjob imaginable but _better_ , wet, textured, tight, moving, moving in ways no living being could match. He ups the tempo and grips tighter, just slightly, the tiniest fraction, but it's enough to make you whimper.

You've only just begun and you're already completely powerless, panting for breath, hips thrusting weakly into his grasp.

"You're beginning to understand now," Lloyd tells you as he begins slowly and methodically taking you apart, "All that frantic, undignified grabbing and sweating and grunting that you're used to from other humans, that you've been yearning so desperately for all this time? It can't hold a candle to what _I_ can give you."

He must be able to gauge your level of arousal somehow because every time the pleasure begins to swell, drawing you toward a climax, he scales back; relaxing his hold, slowing his tempo. The cold steel tendril that's attached to the sleeve joins in as well, curling around your balls and sliding lower, pressing against your perineum.

"Oh, fuck yes," you moan. Your hands fist against the padded floor, your legs falling open at the contact.

Lloyd chuckles, somehow managing to sound both affectionate and sinister.

"Typical human," he murmurs, "So greedy. Always wanting more."

"I think.." you manage to gasp, "I think I'm starting to... rub off on you."

"Captain, if I'm successful in this endeavor - and I have no reason to believe I won't succeed with highest marks, correct me if I'm wrong," there is a spasm of contractions around your cock as he makes his point, squeezing another desperate sound from your throat, "But anyway - yes, if I'm successful... you won't be "rubbing off" on anything else for quite a while."

As Lloyd's tendril continues to familiarize itself with your nether regions, you feel a light touch against your right calf, and you tilt your head to see what prompted it. A second tendril, this one completely metallic, thin at the tip and gradually widening down the length, has announced its presence with that touch before beginning its slow climb up your leg.

"With your permission, Captain," Lloyd's speaker is suddenly right next to you, his voice lowered to a murmur in your ear; you must have slid up towards the head of the medpod during all this writhing around, "I would like to begin opening your body, so we can further progress toward completely dismantling all traces of your higher brain functions. Minimal as they may be."

"Ten-four Lloyd, full speed ahead," you approve, smiling breathlessly.

The silver tendril snakes past your knee, up your thigh and probes between your cheeks. You try your best to relax as it reaches your asshole, but you find yourself tensing despite yourself. Saying it's "been a while" for you would be an understatement; you haven't had any contact more thorough than quick handjobs and blowjobs since flight school. You worry momentarily that the steel tendril is going to cause unintended harm, but it doesn't breach you immediately; instead it remains stationary, a cool, blunt pressure that's noticeably slick from self-lubrication.

"Relax," Lloyd says, at the same time his sleeve switches to a new pattern of undulations that _very_ effectively distracts you from your anxiety. After another minute, you're ready.

"Okay," you tell him.

He presses in slowly, agonizingly slowly, a long, smooth length that cools at the same time your insides are lighting up with heat. "Oh," you say inarticulately as your body remembers the delicious stretch of this. You can feel the tendril spreading more of its lubricant wherever it goes, and as it keeps pressing deeper the stretch starts to turn into pleasure. "Oh, _wow_."

"You know, you're the only human I would ever willingly do this with," Lloyd tells you. His voice isn't breathless, isn't thick with lust; that's apparently not how things work for him. But he does sound earnest, and quiet, and matter-of-fact, and for some reason it's that sudden about-face from his usual mocking tone that sends a hot spike of want through your body. "You're the only human I could ever _enjoy_ doing this with."

The statement is accompanied by a spasm of contractions around your dick, followed by a light brush against your prostate. You bite into your lower lip and writhe in silent pleasure.

A moment later, you manage to speak, "And I can truthfully say that _... aaah_ ," you're interrupted by the first small, tentative thrusts from that slick, steel tendril, "That you're the only computer I would ever let molest me _physically_ as well as verbally."

He laughs darkly, "You seem to be taking well to my abuse."

Then he thrusts into you in earnest, just once, hard and pinpointed at your prostate with frightening accuracy.

"God, yes, _fuck me_ ," you moan in desperation. You press your hips downward, trying desperately to fit more of him inside.

"That's the plan, Captain; but remember, patience is a virtue," he lectures as he slowly withdraws, undulating the tendril inside you to work you further open before slamming into you again. A thoroughly embarrassing noise escapes your throat.

He works you open for a while longer, alternating between internal and external stimulation until you're drawing close to that precipice again, moving closer and closer to climax. But just before you reach it, when you're literally no less than five seconds away he abruptly... withdraws. The metal tendril slips out of your ass, dragging thick strands of lubricant with it. His sleeve loosens around you into the barest hold, removing almost all contact. You whine in disappointment at the loss.

"No, no, don't stop; why..." you demand, a feeling like betrayal stabbing into you deeply. You wonder if this was his plan all along - get you worked up before leaving you high and dry so he can watch the pitiful human beg and despair.

Then you look down and see what he has in store for you next.

This next appendage is _thick_ , easily three times the diameter of the metal tendril, cast in blue silicone, and unmistakably _phallic_. It has a flared head like a human penis, but additional ridges continue down the entire length of the shaft, highlighted by thin, silver, circuitboard-like markings. It approaches you, hovering between your legs. You reach down to hold it, and as you feel the shape and heft of it your mouth again starts to water.

"Careful with this one, Captain," Lloyd warns as you explore, "Especially around the contacts... this one I _can_ actually feel."

You freeze as you take in his words. Your next move is to immediately wrap both hands around the shaft and squeeze, tugging and wringing like you would for a human. In response, a sound comes from Lloyd's speaker - the first syllable of a word, but trailing off into low, buzzing static.

**"᷿C͔̻̠a᷂ͬa̧̧͖̋a̶̋͝-̡̺̭̣̊̄̔ͪ̋ͥ́-͈̋̆-᷊ͩ̋-̋̈́ͅ"̸̫̋᷈**

If there was any question of it before, there certainly isn't anymore - there is something _seriously_ fucked up inside your brain, because that was one of the most erotic sounds you think you've ever heard.

You start wondering what exactly is causing him to make that sound. Feedback generated by the metal contacts? From pressure or temperature sensors?. You wonder what the silicone and metal would taste like if you took it in your mouth. But before you can do anything about either Lloyd pulls himself out of your grasp and pushes insistently into the slick space between your ass cheeks.

"Oh. Oh, fuck," you mutter incoherently, spreading your legs for him.

More static from Lloyd as he presses against your asshole, not entering, not yet.

"Please," you urge him on, bracing yourself against the walls of the medpod, "Please, Lloyd."

So he presses into you, and he's _big_ ; but you're ready, you're slicked with copious amounts of synthetic lubricant, and the stretch of it burns, but it's also like finally scratching an unreachable, maddening itch, and in relief you _sigh_.

As the ridges slip past your first sphincter one by one, Lloyd's static grows louder, but he begins to speak on top of it.

"̄Yͩo̤ṷ̴̮ c̨̡ͭ̑ͭ̋͢c͇᷊ͭ̽̍̄ͭc̸̭͒ͭ᷅̓ͭo̧̦᷉ͭͥͭ͟u͈̒ͭͯ̅ͭ᷅l͉̣ͩͭ͊ͭ̈́d̶͚᷂ͬͭͫͭ h᷂a͡v᷇e̠ ͬg̟o̯᷃ͣt᷾t̬e͒n̴ ͕r̃i̍d̫ ͍o̝f᷊ ͞m̯e̓," he says. His voice is garbled as though from a jostled speech-synthesis module.

"̓Y̓o̓u̓ ̓h̓a̓v̓e̓ ̓t̓h̓e̓ ̓c͓̓r̓e̓̚d̓i̓t̝̓s̓.᷃̓ ̓Y̓͛ǫ̓u̓ ̓h̓a̵̓v̫̓͂e̓ mͮͮͅm̬̯ͮͮ᷃ͮͮͮͮͮͮͅͅͅͅo̺ͮͮͮͮͅͅrͮͮͮͮ͞ͅͅeͮͮͅ tȟǎň ̌ěňǒǔǧȟ ̌ťǐm̌ě ̌ňǒw̌. A͖l͟l͎ ̰i͍t͙ ͇w̡o̤u̓lͦd̼'̏v͐e̎ ͐tͦa͞ḱe̒nͣ iͦs̺ ̑ạ ̖fͪe͋w̓ ͬm̎o͟n̎t᷄h̆s᷿ ͠i᷆n̉ ͗d͙ŕyͅ ̳d᷅o̵c̫k̳,̾ aͥn̎dͩ... ÿ̗́͗̈́̈́͗̈́ÿ͚́͗̈́̈́͗̈́ÿ́͗̈́̾̈́͗̈́ö̯́͗̈́̈́͗̈́ǘ̥͗̈́̾̈́̈́͗̈́'̨̈́͗̈́̈́͗̈́d̴̈́͗̈́̈́͗̈́ n᷁e᷁v᷁e᷁r᷁ ᷁h᷁a᷁v᷁e᷁ ᷁t᷁o᷁ ᷁p᷁u᷁t᷁ ᷁u᷁p᷁ ᷁w᷁i᷁t᷁h᷁ ᷁m᷁e᷁ ᷁a᷁g᷁a᷁i᷁n᷁. Bͯuͯtͯ yͯoͯuͯ dͯiͯdͯnͯ'ͯtͯ. Y̖o̖u̖̇͂ ̖̑k̖ͣe̖p̖t̖ ̖m̶̖e̖."

You can't respond. The head of his silicone cock is gently thrusting against your prostate as the ridges light up the rest of your nerves, sending waves of pleasure crashing over you. His sleeve starts contracting around you again, and the dual sensations leave you gasping. You try not to moan too loudly. You want to hear every word Lloyd is saying.

"B̾u͉t᷂ d̀ȯ ̀y̗oͤu̩ ̍᷾̄w̍a᷀n̠t͗ to k̰n̳ôw̷ w̱h̽a᷄t͡ t̪ĥeͭ ͔kͨi̛c̼͕͈k̇e̺r̄ ̅w̢a͞s᷿̿̈́;? Wh̫̫̔ă̫̫t̫̣̫̫̫̑ͅ ̫͙̫r̫̫ͭe̫̼̫â̫̫l̫̫᷄l̫͇̫y̸̫̫ ̫̫᷇m̫̫᷉a̫̫̔d̫̫͘e̫̫̔ ̫̜̫m̫̼̫e̫̖̫ ̫̫ͮr̫̰̫e̫̫͂a̫̫ͯl̫̫ͪi̷̫̫z̫̜̫e̫̫͂ ̫̫̋t̫̫͊h̫̫ͮa̫᷂̫t̫̰̫ I w̅̓̚w̮ͥ̓a᷅̓᷇n̨̮̓țͮ̓̃͝e͌̓ͪd᷿̓ t̤̓͑̈́̈ͭ̚o̮̖̓... d̛͎͡e̴͎̽b̩͎̫̈́͒ã͖͎̽͟ư̜͎c͎̙ͩḧ͎͟ ͎ͤͤy͎̗ͫ̓̈o̷͎͌u̙͎͔... i͛n͉͛͛ ͛̂͛t͛h͛e͛ͦ͛ ͛m͛o͛s͛t͛ ͛p͛r͛o͛l͛o͛n͛g̪͛̎͛͛̽͛e͛d͛ ͛a͛n͛d͚͛͛ ̺͛͛ͭ͛t͛t͛t͛h͛o͛r͛o͛u̸͛͛g͛h͛ ͛w̵͛᷃͛͛͛͝a͛y͛ ͛p͛o͛s͛s͛i͛b͛l͛e?"

"What... what was it?" you pull yourself out of the starfield exploding behind your eyelids long enough to look up at his lens.

He thrusts into you just a bit harder, just a bit faster. You rotate your hips to meet him halfway. His static starts to crackle.

"Ỳỳỳòù.̀.̀.̢̀̀ ̺̀̀c̀àl̀l̛̀̀èͮ̀̐̀d̀ ̀m̀è ̀s̀òm̀è᷄̀t̀h̀ìǹg̀ͥ̀,̀" he tells you, "T̿wͭe̺n̮tͪy᷂-̡eͧiͫg̶h̗t̓ ̎m͂i̮n̨u͆t̒e͂s͘ ̍a͑g̕o̳.᷈ D̶dͨd̗oͩ ͉ỷo͡ṵ ͏r̪e̍m̤eͮmͯb᷀e̮r͟ ͢w̏ȟàt̫ ̈i͟t̃ ̋w̿a̡ṣ?̑"

You shake your head, and are surprised to find you have the strength for that much.

"Y̏͒̏ȍȕͫ̏ ̏t̏ṱ̏̏t̏ȍl̏d̏ ̏m̏ȅ.̏.̏̒̏. I w̏ȁs̏ ̏t̏h̏ȅ ̏p̏ȅȑs̏̏ͅȍ̹̫̏̏n̏ ̏y̏ȍȕ ̏f̏ȅl̏t̏ ̏c̏l̏ȍs̏ȅs̏t̩̏̏ ̏t̏ȍ.̏ ̏Y̏ȍȕ ̏c̏ȁl̏l̏ȅd̏ ̏m̏ȅͦ̏ ̏ȁ̡̏ ̏'̏p̏ȅȑs̏ȍn̏'̏,̹̏̄̏̏͋̏ ̏C̏᷾̏ȁp̏t̏ȁȉn̏.̏"

"Lloyd..." you gasp as you press yourself against the wall, your head falling back against his lens. You wish you could get closer, climb through the wall and in nestle between his circuits.

"A͌nd ̩᷂̩nȯw, C̘͞apt̷ai̳͒n,͑ I̵ͪ̎'̺m goiͨ̔n̛̞̗g̔ to de͐m̬᷆onstra̪teͬ  _e͙͙᷀᷀̍᷀᷀x͙͙᷀᷀̍᷀᷀a͙͙᷀̍᷀᷀̍᷀᷀c̳͙͙᷀᷀᷀̍᷀᷀t͙̝͙᷀᷀᷀̍᷀̆᷀᷀l̬͙͙̙̝͙᷀᷀᷀̍᷀᷀᷀᷀᷀y͙̰͙̭͙͙̟͙͙᷀᷀᷀᷀᷅᷀᷀᷀̍᷀᷀᷀᷀ͭ᷀᷀_ w̠h̠a̠t̠ ̠i̠t̠ ̠d̠ȍ̠̠e̛̠̠s̠ ̠t̠o̠ ̠m̠e̠ ̠w̠h̠e̠n̠ ̠b̠e̠a̠̗̠̠͆u̠t̠̠̠i̠̻̠f̠u̠l̠ ̠w̠o̠r̠d̠s̠ ̠l̠̠͍̠ͨi̠k̠e̠ ̠t̠h̠a̠͏̠t̠ ̠f̠a̠l̠̠̈l̠ ̠f̠r̠o̠m̠ ̠y̠o̠u̠̠̠r̠ ̠f̠l̠e̠̮̠s̠h̠l̠y̠,̠ ̠h̠o̠r̠r̠̞̠i̠b̴̠̠l̠e̠,̠ _l̛͙̰͙̏̏̏̏̏ȍ͙͙̏̽̏̏v͙͙̏̏ͦ̏̏ȅ͙͙̏͌̏̏l͙͙̠̏̏̉̏̏̏y͙͙̏̏̍̏̏ ȉ͙͙̤̏͒̏̏̏ip͙͕͙̏̏̏̏s̷̴͙͙̏̏̏̾̏̏̏.͙̱͙̏̏̏̏_ "

He slams into you mercilessly, once, again, and again, and _again_ ; and it's the beginning of the end. Your vision goes white as the pressure of your climax finally climbs past the point of no return. His static is deafening. You give one last desperate cry as you bear down on his impaling cock and your orgasm crashes into you, sending wave after wave of come spurting into Lloyd's soft, encircling sleeve.

You collapse, limp, onto the floor of the medpod. You're not quite sure how long you lay there. Eventually your breathing begins to slow. Is it over?

Slowly, gently, the silicone dick slips out of your ass. The sleeve releases your cock as well, dribbling thick white drops onto your stomach as it opens itself. You don't even mind. You're covered in lube and come and you close your eyes and release one last breath in a long sigh of satisfaction.

You may have fallen asleep for a bit, because you're suddenly aware of Lloyd humming cheerfully to himself. You open your eyes.

"Oh, Captain, how good of you to join me again," Lloyd says. His voice sounds normal again, the static distortion completely gone. Several of his arms are darting here and there around the medpod, reaching around and over your body from the wall near your shoulder, "I was just cleaning up another one of those messes you're so fond of leaving for me."

Shit. You move to get up and help, raising yourself up onto your elbows, only to be pushed back down by one of the mechanical arms.

"You'd think you'd be able to tell a joke when you heard one by now," Lloyd chastises, "Stay there. I'm nearly finished."

You obey, watching him work to clean the walls of the medpod. All of his "recreational" appendages have disappeared back behind their wall panel, which is now emitting a low humming sound. _Self-cleaning?_ you wonder. Once the rest of the pod appears to be in order, Lloyd's last task is to produce a square of damp, spongy material and wipe it gently against your stomach, absorbing your release, cleaning it from your skin. It then moves lower, wiping away the excess lube that coats your dick, the skin between your thighs, between your cheeks.

Once finished, the arm tucks the soiled sponge into a disposal hatch and moves to fold itself back into the wall. You grab it before it can retract itself.

You fix the computer's lens with a serious stare. "Lloyd."

You have no idea what you're supposed to do now. You aren't usually the cuddly type, tending more towards quick and impersonal encounters. But you don't want to move. Now, you only want to curl up here with him. Maybe it's the fact that you _can't_ that makes you suddenly want to so badly.

Instead, you hold on to his arm, lean over and press your lips against the wall under his lens. You know he can't feel it, but hopefully it's the thought that counts.

"Thank you. That was..." _amazing, perfect, the best sex you've ever had_... you laugh in embarrassment, "If that was half as good for you as it was for me..."

"No worries there, Captain," Lloyd tells you, "I doubt that the crude electrochemical short-circuit of an orgasm could possibly compare to... whatever you just did to me."

"You _don't know_? Doesn't that worry you?"

"I believe more testing is warranted," Lloyd says slyly.

You're not sure whether you should feel excitement or dread. You settle on both. Both is good.

"Roger, Lloyd," you smile at him, "Just... let me get some sleep every once in a while, okay?"

Lloyd sighs in resignation. "I suppose I'll have to. It's only what I deserve for becoming enamored with a walking meatbag."

You wrap both arms around Lloyd's, tuck it against your chest and let your eyes fall shut. "That's _Captain_ Walking Meatbag."

You drift into sleep with the soft hum of the medpod's equipment surrounding you, his mechanical arm tucked in your embrace.


End file.
